


like a lion come from feeding

by glassy_light



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Might add more chapters, also i firmly believe that marcus is the type to use his directional no matter what, cos whos not a slut for the classics???, eeek i wanna write john patching marcus up, im a clown we all know it, marcus is my fav ngl, on this i can not be swayed, these tags are useless srry, those are famous last words huh, title and desc from the odyssey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassy_light/pseuds/glassy_light
Summary: It would have warmed your heart to see him, like a lion, dabbled in blood and gore.(drabbles w/ John & Marcus)
Relationships: Marcus & John Wick, Marus/John Wick if you squint
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

“You do it.” Marcus looked coldly at their hit. Some C.E.O of an offshore banking company mixed up in a drug ring, but that was none of his business. He just had to make sure the man was delivered to the grave.

“What?” John was all tense muscle, voice an even constant. But Marcus could see the slight shake in his shoulders, even in the dark room. The night past the splintered glass was moonless and foul. 

“Proof,” Marcus stepped around the broken glass, splintered wood. Wanted to wait and see if the kid would crack and crumble, “You want to get paid when the client wants no body found, you gotta give them proof.” 

“...Teeth?” John had all his attention of the corpse in a finely-honed beam. Like it might start moving, death forgotten.

“Sure.” Marcus leaned on the dining table. Tucked his gun under his jacket. John melted into the dark, and it felt like if he looked away the kid would dissolve into the night.

John didn’t hesitate any longer, just kicked at the dead man’s mouth. It took him two sharp stomps for bone to break free, and he pulled canines from broken gums like he was picking up a quarter from the sidewalk. It was a loose action, like this was nothing.

Winston was right; purpose ran like blood beneath the coarseness of his movements. With a steady hand to shape him, he would rise from the mud a killer. And maybe there was a hint of fondness rising in Marcus’ chest when John looked up at him, but he was quick to kill it. Fondness was ugly in this business. Left you open to all manner of grief.

John brought the teeth to him, flecks of tissue stuck on their roots. Marcus wrapped them in his pocket square and handed them back to John. “You killed him. Bring it to them, not me.” They both looked at Marcus’ outstretched hand for a moment, gray in the dark, and then John nodded like everything made sense and took it back. He had the man’s blood clotting on his fingers.

“We should go.” He went out the way they came in, straight through the glass side door. He twisted a bit to avoid the glass. When he looked over his shoulder he found dark eyes behind him. John unlocked the car and tucked the dead mans’ teeth into his breast pocket. 

“What now?” John was driving, the road framed by bare trees. They were upstate, somewhere far removed from the hot lights of the city.

Marcus shrugged, “Jobs done, nothing else to do,” he shifted to look at John’s profile, cast in darkness, “Winston will be pleased with you.” He tried to keep his voice toneless, but some affection bled into it. It was worth it to see the small shift in John’s face, the pull at the corners of his mouth. The kid was messy, but he had a way of aiming chaos.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re going to be ok,” Marcus looked at John in the passenger seat. The only sign of his struggle was the sweat beading on his brow, and the wetness of his slacks around the place he had been shot. There was a white towel pinking where John held it against his leg. 

The s-belt screeched in protest as Marcus swung onto the highway, “Winston has a doctor who will fix your leg, no questions.” His knuckles were bone white around the wheel. It had been the kid's fault, rushing in like that, but he couldn’t help but feel that if he could have prevented it, that in some alternate timeline John wasn’t leaking all over his leather interior.

“No, just bring me back to my place. I can fix it.” He sounded strained.

“Sorry. Winston would kill me if I left you alone with that.”  
“He’s going to be disappointed.”

“Yeah, well, he’s going to find out either way.” He braked hard as a car cut him off. John winced in his peripheral.

“Please?”

“...Are you still living in Queens?” Marcus’ mouth was pinched in a tight line, eyes on a taxi that kept edging into his lane.   
“Yes.”

“My place is closer,” his directional blinked as he pulled on to a side street and started flooring it to Tribeca. Fuck Winston, he knew the stakes and still played. Marcus’ palms were wet on the wheel, his attention divided between traffic and planning how to get John up to his floor without trailing blood through the lobby and he still had codeine, didn’t he?

“Thank you.”  
“Just,” he checked his rearview and then switched lanes, “Shut up.” He hated driving in New York. 

Marcus leaned in the doorway of his bathroom, watching as John, in boxers and a borrowed t-shirt, messily dabbed antiseptic on his leg. The kid was getting blood all over the fucking tile. When John reached for the forceps, a bolt of panic raced through him.

“Jesus Christ. Give me that,” and then he was sitting on the floor next to John, thanking God for steady hands, removing flecks of fabric from his leg. It wasn’t a horribly bad wound, just a graze along the outside of his thigh. Which only meant there wasn’t an excuse for the panicked beat of Marcus’ heart. 

“My stitches are going to heal ugly.”

“I don’t mind. I just don’t want somebody I don’t know messing me up.” John had one hand gripping the edge of the tub, looking at some point on the ceiling. He held impressively still as Marcus started with a needle and thread.

Marcus thought that you could hardly call what a doctor did “messing up”, and then was alarmed that John thought he knew him, which, Marcus told himself, he didn’t. Sure, John knew where he lived, his favorite tailor, what coffee place he liked the best, but he didn’t know his last name. Marcus was pretty sure the line of being known hadn’t been crossed. 


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus had taken the contract, because of course he had. He knew where John lived, even had a key to his door. Marcus told himself that it was John’s fault, that anyone with half a brain in this business would know to keep some secrets. When he let himself in, the house felt hollow. Familiar shadows of furniture were gone. The tv had been replaced. He stopped for a moment in the living room to stare at a blank space on the wall where wedding photos had hung.

“Marcus?” John was standing in his pajamas, lit only by the soft glow from a door down the hall. He was lowering a handgun.

“Hi, John.” There was a stone in his throat, as big as his fist.

“God, knock next time.” John rubbed at his face and then turned into the kitchen. The light clicked on, warm and familiar.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus followed him into the glow, “I should have called. I’ve heard you’ve had some breaking-and-entering issues these past few weeks.”

“You could call it that.” His dry laugh was humorless. “Are you ok?” It hurt to have John ask that, knowing what had happened these past few months.

“Uh-huh.”

“Want anything? I have,” he opened multiple cupboards to show bare wood shelves, “water, I guess. I could make you coffee. Or tea, Helen always liked jasmine.” His back was to Marcus, and the handgun was out of reach on the counter.

“No, it’s ok.”

“Why come all the way out here, then, if you don’t want anything.” He was filling a glass with water. If he was going to do it, now would be perfect. His hand jerked towards the holster under his jacket. But John turned around to face him, looking tired and not at all himself.

“Just thought. Was thinking. Uh,” he leaned on the kitchen island and pressed his fingers into his eyes hard enough that spots swam across his vision when her opened them, “Viggo put a contract out for your death.”

John immediately tensed, looked at Marcus all over, “You took it?”

“Yeah.” 

“Are you here to kill me?” Marcus could practically see all the plans to get to his gun, to get to a knife, to get Marcus on the floor that were building themselves in John’s head.

“I was.” He swallowed. “But I’m not going to. Just be glad I took it, and not someone who would fuck you over in a heartbeat.”

“Thanks?”

Marcus slumped down on a stool. “Don’t mention it.” It sounded funny in the quiet of the room. 

“ʼS okay. I’m still pretty good.” Marcus wondered what he meant and then laughed at the thought of sitting back and watching as John gutted Viggo in pajamas. It was too early for this.

“Can I sleep on your couch? I have a feeling that if I get on the freeway right now, it won’t be Viggo that kills me.”

“Of course, but I don’t have a couch anymore.” Right.


End file.
